Postscript
by cbtreks
Summary: Response to Killa's "Ghost in the Machine". (Written in 1996.)


I was having a difficult time waking out of my dream . . . I don't remember what I was dreaming, only that an incessant chiming filled the background. Finally my subconscious mind identified the sound as my door com. Someone was paying me a visit. I rolled out of bed and grabbed my robe; as I tied it around me, I glanced at the chronometer. 0603. I am not a cheerful early riser. This had better be an emergency. I opened the door, my customary morning scowl on my face, and there stood Tom.

I doubted he'd been to bed the night before. There was faint, fair stubble along his jaw, he was wearing civvies and - had he been crying? Was there the faintest, fading hint of red in his eyes, his nose? Or was that simply the remnant of a night filled with synth-beer and no sleep?

He just looked at me. When I asked if he was ok, he said, 'Yeah, I'm fine."

And then he grinned, the smile suffusing his face with light like the sun through a cloudbank. It wasn't the smirk everyone is familiar with; it was the clean, honest, untainted grin that so few of us on the ship have seen and always want more of. "Listen, Harry?" he said. "There's something I have to tell you."

He walked through the door, walked toward me, and for one wild moment, I thought he was going to grab me in his arms and - Tom gave a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head, and walked over to the sofa, settling into a corner. I asked if he wanted something to drink. "Coffee, raktajino - "

When I returned to the sofa with two steaming mugs of coffee, I took a seat in the other corner. Tom was still wearing that beautiful smile.

_(Beautiful?)_

"Whatever you have to tell me, it must be pretty good. I haven't seen you grin like that in ages."

"It's good, Harry," Tom said and his voice was uncharacteristically soft. "It's good."

"So? Tell me!"

Tom swallowed then said, "I love you, Harry."

I loved Tom as much as I'd loved any of my friends, probably more. I laughed a little and said, "I love you too, Tom, but I don't think I'd wake you up two hours early to tell you." I was still pretty groggy - I hadn't been sleeping well and was beginning to feel perpetually groggy - and I suppose that's why it took me a moment or two to realize that Tom was shaking his head at me and that his tone of voice indicated something different from what I'd assumed he'd meant.

Suddenly, I was very much awake.

"No, Harry, that's not what I meant." He gave a short laugh. "I've been thinking about everything I wanted to tell you, everything I wanted to say, and now I've forgotten the whole speech." He stopped talking abruptly and the smile was still on his face but it was fading.

I could've said, "Then maybe you weren't meant to say it," or "Tom, let's please not get into this," or something equally discouraging. Instead, I carefully placed my mug on the floor in front of me, then leaned forward just a little. "So don't make speeches Tom. Just talk to me."

He drew a shaky breath and began to talk. He told me . . . he told me all the things you tell someone when you first realize you're in love with them, all the things you say with the hope they'll love you in return.

At some point - I don't remember when - Tom reached over and took my hand. I didn't withdraw it.

It wasn't a particularly eloquent declaration of love and it didn't take very long, but I felt as if we'd been sitting there forever. When Tom was done talking, the look on his face was so hopeful, so fearful all at once, so naked and open, that I wanted to turn away. But he wouldn't let me. His eyes held mine and I couldn't look away. And I couldn't find my voice.

Finally, I had to talk or scream, so I said - and my voice was shaking - "Tom, I - " _feel the same way you do, I'm just scared to death_. I had to stop for a moment because the thought had ambushed me. Where had it come from? " - I don't know what to say."

_I'm not rejecting you, I just don't know . . ._

Tom released my hand and stood up. "I understand, Harry. But - I had to say it and . . . I feel I should have told you a long time ago. I'm sorry I waited."

"I'm glad you did tell me."

He turned and headed for the door. The smile was gone. I couldn't stand it.

"Tom!"

He stopped, eyes closed, back to me.

"I didn't say 'no'. It's just that - "

Tom shook his head a little. "Don't. You don't need to say anything. I won't push you."

Then he left.

I sat there for a long time, thinking. Then I got up and got ready for my shift at ops. As I left the bathroom, I saw the ring Tom had given me a couple of weeks ago, on the shelf where I'd left it the night before. I put in on before I headed out the door.

Not long after, I was having another sleepless night. They were becoming more frequent recently - Libby was haunting me. After three years in the Delta Quadrant, almost everyone on the ship seemed to have reconciled themselves to never seeing their friends and family back home again. They had done their grieving, dealt with their anger, and were well on the way to forming new lives. I was one of the few exceptions. I wanted to remain eternally optimistic and I held on to the images of home and Libby like . . . well, like the proverbial drowning man grasps a rope. But now my grasp was slipping. I was becoming more and more aware of the fact that, to Libby, I was a dead man, three years dead, and though I knew she loved me, Libby was not a fool. She would've moved on by now. It was time for me to do the same. I'd been shying away from that thought for weeks but tonight I faced it head on.

When the tears came, I wasn't taken by surprise; they were part of what I'd been avoiding. Giving in to grief meant acknowledging that the situation was real; I was "dead"; my old life was gone.

I didn't want to face this alone - but there was only one person on board that I wanted to talk to, and that was Tom. I knew I could call him and he'd be there before the com link closed. Or I could walk down to his quarters - so close - and wake him. I knew he would listen without a single "told you so!" (though he had), that he would hold me, comfort me, say all the right things . . . and I couldn't go. I almost did, headed for the door half a dozen times, but another thought kept creeping into the back of my mind - the thought that it would be unfair to Tom, to go to his quarters, ask him to hold me, talk to me, listen to me, do whatever it was I needed to feel better right then - and then sneak back to my own quarters after having given nothing in return, pretending in the morning that nothing had happened. Because I knew that, for whatever reason eluded me at the moment, that's what would happen if I sought him out right then. So I spent another white night in my quarters with only my tears, my grief, my anger to keep me company.

After that night, I began sleeping better and life started moving a little more smoothly for me. Libby - home - crossed my mind less and less frequently. Of course, that meant that I had a lot more time to think about Tom and our friendship and Tom loving me and me . . . me loving Tom.

Because I did, and if I were going to be honest with myself, I had to admit that I had for quite awhile.

And it did scare me.

I wasn't entirely sure why. It wasn't - at least I didn't think it was - because Tom was a man and I'd never had "romantic" feelings for a man before. In reality, Libby was the only person I'd ever loved like that and, while I never thought I would fall in love with another man, I didn't question it when I realized it had happened. The biggest reason, the one that flashed through my mind like a neon sign, was as old as the hills. Tom was the best friend I had - the best friend I'd ever had - and I had never known a couple who'd moved from friendship to romance, then broken up, and truly remained friends. I was afraid of the relationship not working out and not being able to stay friends if it didn't. Voyager was too small a ship and 70 years too long a time for that to happen. I would rather have Tom's friendship and nothing else than not have him in my life at all.

Selfish, cowardly - and incredibly unfair in light of the risk Tom took, saying the things he'd said to me.

Surprisingly, our relationship didn't change much, not on the surface. Things were different, of course. There was a tension between us that hadn't been there before, but I think we were the only ones to notice. Most of it was created by me, wanting to offer encouragement while asking for time - but not wanting to tease. I didn't want Tom to give up on me, but I wasn't ready to leap that gulf between friendship and a deeper relationship either, and I didn't know if I ever would be. I always wore the ring he'd given me - I know he noticed - and sometimes, I couldn't help myself, I had to touch him. Just a hand on his shoulder or an "accidental" brush of my skin against his if I were handing him something. Nothing more.

I hated to think that I was hurting him. If I was, he gave no sign.

We hung out together as much as we ever had, shooting pool at Sandrine's or shooting the bull in our quarters. When we got the chance at some shore leave on Akitaria, we went together.

Shore leave was a nightmare. The terrorist attack, being separated from Tom, not allowed to call Voyager, the kangaroo court. Then being dropped down the chute into the center of that hideous "welcoming committee". All those . . .those animals, each one screaming, "He's mine!" "No, I tell you, he's _mine!"_ And then Tom stepping forth, a ragged knight in dirty clothing, knife in his hand, daring them all to interfere with his "revenge". "This one is _mine."_

I did love him.

I won't go into details; it's all in the official record. I can't say I'm glad it happened. But I can say that this is what it took to open my eyes and force me to make up my mind.

Shortly before the end - before I tried to kill Tom - there was a night that was worse than usual. He woke up and couldn't remember what had happened to him; when I reminded him that he'd been stabbed, he became convinced that I was the one who had done it. He tried, weak as he was, to attack me and I had to fight him off. He did calm down and memory returned, but he was scared - I could see the fear in his eyes - and in pain and he pleaded, "Harry, please don't leave me here." I held his hand in both of mine, not knowing what to say. I thought perhaps he was dying and I'd never been so afraid of anything in my life. I wanted to cry out, "No Tom! Please don't leave me!" I wanted to hold him close, to lean over and kiss his forehead, kiss his cheek, kiss - I didn't cry out or move, except to lie down beside him for some sleep. "Close your eyes," I said.

After the rescue, after we'd been cleaned up and put back together, the implants removed, Tom led me from sickbay, slinging a friendly arm across my shoulders, saying, "Come on, Harry. We're overdue for that steak dinner," and we walked along while he talked about the dinner and all it's trimmings. I couldn't stand it. Guilt and remorse burned inside me like cold, white fire.

"Tom," I said, but he kept talking. I quit walking. _"Tom!_ Listen to me!"

He stopped.

How could he stand there and act like nothing had ever happened? "Tom, I almost killed you."

"What're you saying? You're the one that kept me alive."

"I was ready to hit you with the pipe." I burned with shame, telling what I'd done. "Don't you remember?"

"You want to know what I remember? Someone saying, 'This man is my friend. Nobody touches him.' I'll remember that for a long time."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to reach out and hold him. I wanted to look away but his eyes wouldn't let me. I couldn't move. _Touch me,_ I thought. _Hug me or kiss me or just take my hand. Touch me once and I can move again. Just **once** and I'm yours forever._

"So what do you say we blow a week's worth of replicator rations?" Tom was saying. The spell was broken and I averted my gaze. Throwing his arm across my shoulder again, Tom led me up the corridor.

"So what's for dessert?" I asked.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, played my clarinet, tried to read a book. Nothing helped. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted Tom. "I won't push you," he'd told me two months ago.

The next move was mine.

I got dressed, asked the computer for Tom's whereabouts.

"Lieutenant Paris is in his quarters."

"Is he alone?"

"Affirmative."

I walked the short distance down the hall, then stood outside his door for a full minute before touching the door com.

When Tom came to the door, it was clear that I'd wakened him. He stood there, not speaking, looking at me confusedly.

"Tom," I said, my voice breaking a little, "There's something I have to tell you."

I walked inside and as the door closed, I crossed the short distance between us and drew him close, hugging him tightly to me. For a moment he just stood there, then his arms went around me and he held on like a drowning man. Then I put my arms around his neck and pulled his head down, meeting his mouth with mine.


End file.
